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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26338540">Come the Three Corners of the World in Arms</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingTypewriter/pseuds/BleedingTypewriter'>BleedingTypewriter</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>To Itself do Rest but True [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Persona 5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>And then Akira fucks Ryuji, Bottom Sakamoto Ryuji, Choo choo motherfuckers all aboard the fuck train, Dom/sub Undertones, Dry Orgasm, Let Sakamoto Ryuji Say Fuck, Look Akechi fucks Ryuji, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, NYC has heavy rail JPN has light rail Ryuji gets MEGA-RAILED, Overstimulation, Secret Relationship, Shades of cuckolding? Kind of?, Top Akechi Goro, Top Akira Kurusu, Top Persona 5 Protagonist, Unclear Relationship Dynamics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:07:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,496</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26338540</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BleedingTypewriter/pseuds/BleedingTypewriter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryuji's not sure what to call this whatever-it-is he has with Akechi. He just knows it hurts in the best ways (except when it doesn't).</p><p>He's even less sure what to call the bigger, overarching whatever-it-is he has with Akira.</p><p>These things should probably bother him more than they do.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira/Sakamoto Ryuji, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist/Sakamoto Ryuji, Akechi Goro/Sakamoto Ryuji, Kurusu Akira/Sakamoto Ryuji, Persona 5 Protagonist/Sakamoto Ryuji</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>To Itself do Rest but True [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2089938</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>174</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Come the Three Corners of the World in Arms</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Are you thinking about Akira?” Akechi asks.</p><p>Ryuji grunts and works his hips harder. He hopes the <em>slap-slap-slap </em>of his ass against Akechi’s thighs will drown out that stupid drawl; get him to look a little less <em>smug</em>. But it doesn’t work. It draws out a sigh, but it’s <em>pleased</em>, like Ryuji’s just some pawn in Akechi’s brilliant, life-sized chess game, or whatever.</p><p>He probably is. What the hell does Ryuji know, anyway?</p><p>“Do you want me to be thinking about Akira?”</p><p><em>That</em> gets Akechi looking less smug, but Ryuji’s not sure he likes the alternative. It’s all lit up and pinched and calculating. “<em>Interesting</em>,” Akechi says (<em>hisses</em>, almost, and it shouldn’t be a turn-on, but it <em>is</em>, and Ryuji isn’t sure if it’s because it is or isn’t a reminder of—<em>no</em>, fuck, he shouldn’t give Akechi the satisfaction of getting in his head so easy like that; shouldn’t think about Akira when it’s not his cock inside him). “Every once in a while you manage to be <em>interesting</em>, Sakamoto...”</p><p>He doesn’t feel interesting. He feels a little ridiculous with his pants still caught on one ankle, his t-shirt shoved off his arms and up around his neck, hanging down his back like a cape. He feels like a fucking <em>freak</em>, too, partially because there are still booze-soaked, decade-old whispers telling him how wrong fucking a man should feel, but mostly because he doesn’t know how he can be so fucking hooked on something (someone? someone<em>s</em>?) that makes him so nauseous. “Shut up,” he pants, and braces his palms against Akechi’s stomach in hopes it’ll make it harder for him to breathe (it doesn’t; <em>fuck</em>, he’s so firm and tense and guarded against everything <em>all the time</em>, Ryuji’s extra weight is <em>nothing</em> to him). “Shut up, shut up, shut the <em>fuck </em>up.”</p><p>Akechi’s grin is vicious; hits Ryuji in the spot right below his belly button where he’s already queasy and <em>so close oh god please</em>. “Do you really want me to?”</p><p>Ryuji clenches up in a way Akechi <em>must</em> feel; bears down without thinking as he drools precome over the detective’s shirt and leaves a translucent stain he’ll probably be able to tuck into his pants to conceal on the subway ride home (fucking <em>prick</em>, keeping his clothes on, tugging his pants down and his cock out and staying so fucking immaculate otherwise; leaving afterward like it’s nothing at all; taking another jab at Ryuji that he doesn’t even understand beyond the fact it fucking <em>stings</em>). “<em>Yes</em>,” Ryuji insists, but it comes out on the tail end of a noise in his chest that he can’t keep in, and he’s not sure if it sounds like an answer to Akechi’s question or not. (He’s not sure he <em>wants </em>it to be his answer.) “No...<em>fuck</em>, I don’t <em>know</em>, just…”</p><p>“What’s he like in your head?” Akechi digs his fingers into Ryuji’s hips, tilts them on the next drop so he comes down at a harsher angle, lower back arched. It’s <em>obnoxious</em>. Akechi twists his wrists as he pleases, like he just <em>expects</em> Ryuji to contort himself to follow, and it’s even worse the way Ryuji <em>does</em> follow; the way he strains and twists and rolls and lets Akechi <em>use</em> him. “How do you think Akira fucks, Sakamoto?”</p><p>Ryuji groans a sad, wet sound.</p><p>He <em>knows</em> how Akira fucks.</p><p>He knows <em>a hundred times over </em>how Akira fucks.</p><p>He fucks like he does <em>everything</em>: with a nearly supernatural calm and curiosity. He fucks with delighted, thief-like intent; like it’s an infiltration: deliberate, sly, <em>merciless</em>. He runs an ever evolving series of equations in his head until he’s got a mutual orgasm planned thirty moves in advance, and then spends inordinate, intricate time coaxing out the reactions that’ll achieve it.</p><p>“He fucks like you,” Ryuji spits, “only better.”</p><p>A safe half-lie.</p><p>Akechi <em>does</em> fuck like Akira. Kind of. They share that masterful intensity; that quality that makes Ryuji feel like a useless video game NPC—like the way <em>he </em>fucks isn’t in his own control.</p><p>Akechi is less processed, though; <em>raw</em>. He’s Akira undistilled. He’s meticulous, but it’s in pursuit of pleasure and weakness, both. He’s just as likely to exploit an emotional landmine as he is to exploit an erogenous zone, and it <em>should</em> be worse. It should be so close to Akira’s selfless brand of whatever-this-is that it should feel miles away. It should screech, grind, buzz behind Ryuji’s ear like a mosquito. The difference should chitter in the marrow of his bones about how <em>wrong</em> this kind of affection is in comparison to Akira’s.</p><p>It’s not, though.</p><p>It’s <em>not.</em></p><p>Neither of them is better or worse than the other; they’re just <em>different</em>, and there’s probably some poetic balance shit in there that Ryuji can’t grasp, but whatever it means, it’s the fucking <em>worst</em>.</p><p>It’s not lost on Ryuji at all that Akechi is Akira-like in so many ways, and that probably means that somewhere inside Akira is something just as crooked as Akechi; something just as warped and poorly healed.</p><p>Maybe there’s something like that in Ryuji, too.</p><p>Maybe that’s why he likes it so much.</p><p>Maybe it’s why he’s <em>not</em> thinking about Akira, and maybe it’s why he <em>is</em>.</p><p>He’s thinking about them <em>both</em>, and he’s thinking about <em>neither </em>of them, and he’s thinking about all their ridiculous, fiddly little idiosyncrasies, and holy <em>fuck</em> he’s starting to think he’s going to come without even a hand on his cock.</p><p>Akechi starts to laugh. “You want to know what I think?”</p><p>His hands slip around to grab Ryuji’s ass properly, massaging and kneading and pinching painfully even as he keeps working him up and down and up and down and up and down…</p><p>(Akira’s tactics are more subtle. Usually he’d slip his fingers further in and play around Ryuji’s stretched rim; make him hyper-aware of the fact that he’s being <em>fucked</em>; remind him just how good it feels.)</p><p>“Fuck you,” Ryuji says, because it’s not yes or no, but at least it’s honest.</p><p>“I think he’s fucking devious,” Akechi goads. “He probably fucks like it’s a <em>fight</em>.”</p><p>He’s wrong, but not entirely; right, but just a little. Like everything where Goro Akechi is concerned, it’s not <em>un</em>true, it’s just a little skewed.</p><p>“<em>You </em>fuck like it’s a fight,” Ryuji says, and garbles the rest of whatever he’d been about to say as Akechi angles his hips <em>just so</em> and a familiar pressure starts building. It edges on uncomfortable—<em>is</em>, a little, maybe, but that might be the goal.</p><p>“Isn’t it, between you and I?”</p><p>Oh <em>god</em>, Ryuji’s <em>really</em> going to come like this. Even Akira hasn’t managed that one, yet. He’s not even sure it feels good, just feels like <em>a lot</em>, like an ache in a spot he can’t pinpoint or ease. “He wouldn’t be like that,” he grits.</p><p>“He <em>would</em>.” Akechi starts thrusting in counterpoint to Ryuji, nudging <em>harder </em>against that spot, that <em>pressure</em>. “Akira’d fuck me like he wants to <em>win</em>.”</p><p>Ryuji wants to point out that you can win quieter games, too, not just fights, but he’s sure Akechi already knows that. He’s sure the slip is on purpose, too: ‘Akira’d fuck <em>me</em>,’ so Ryuji knows exactly who the prince detective has on his mind (so he knows it’s not the blonde dumbass writhing in his lap). He even catches the underlying jab: if Akira’d fuck like he wants to win, then Ryuji fucks like…</p><p>Like what? Like he’s already lost?</p><p>He<em> has</em>. That’s half the point between them (between him and Akira, too, he thinks sometimes). Akechi likes that about this, anyway; <em>must </em>like it, given the way he keeps coming back for it.</p><p>“He <em>would</em> win,” Ryuji says. “He’s not like me. He’d–”</p><p>“Fuck,” Akechi cuts him off. “Fuck, <em>fuck</em>, no, you’re <em>not</em> like him, are you?”</p><p>“He’d put you on the fucking <em>floor</em>, Akechi.” There’s a rhythmic staccato to Ryuji’s speech. He’s not sure how much work he’s actually doing anymore and how much of what he’s feeling is the work of Akechi’s brutal upward thrusts.</p><p>“He’d have to work for it.”</p><p>“He <em>would</em>,” Ryuji pants. “You <em>know</em> he would, and he’d fucking <em>break </em>you, you asshole, he’d take you <em>apart</em>…”</p><p>It’s a startling thing, watching Goro Akechi approach orgasm. It’s like he cracks a little more—lets just a little more of the mess he’s made of peek through—and it makes the usual veneer that much more unsettling in comparison. “You think so?” he asks, and there’s the practiced raised eyebrow, the <em>oh, really?</em> smirk, but it’s too excited; pointed at the corners and ragged around the edges. He starts to <em>react</em> more, gasps and twitches slipping through, and the way it looks beside the taunting—beside the <em>hatred</em>—is, frankly, disconcerting.</p><p>(It’s also, frankly, <em>hot</em>.)</p><p>Ryuji wants to say ‘<em>I know so</em>,’ but what comes out is a series of ‘<em>ah, ah, ah</em>’s.</p><p>“He’s not like you,” Akechi growls. “Akira wouldn’t be like this, he’d be <em>nothing</em> like this…”</p><p>He wouldn’t be. <em>Isn’t</em>.</p><p>“No,” Ryuji agrees, “No, no, no, he’d...<em>fuck</em>, Akechi…”</p><p>“He wouldn’t <em>take it</em> like you.”</p><p>Ryuji’s leaking, now, in a way he never has. There’s a puddle on Akechi’s shirt he’ll have no hope of hiding on the train. “He wouldn’t, ah, he wouldn’t…”</p><p>“He <em>couldn’t </em>take it like you.”</p><p>Something pulses through Ryuji. For a second he thinks he’s starting to come, but he’s still hanging <em>right there</em>.</p><p>Akira couldn’t…?</p><p><em>Couldn’t…</em>?</p><p>“Look at you, Sakamoto. <em>No one</em> can take it like you…”</p><p>Another pulse hits, like a shove between his shoulder blades as he’s at the edge of a cliff, and he <em>still</em> doesn’t go over; <em>still</em> hangs in that split-second of sick fear before the plunge. “Stop,” he begs. “Akechi <em>stop</em>, you’re gonna make me…”</p><p>“I <em>know</em>…”</p><p>This isn’t how it usually goes.</p><p>Ryuji doesn’t want to like it this much.</p><p>“Akira–” he tries.</p><p>“Isn’t here. Isn’t taking it like <em>you</em>.”</p><p>Fuck, Ryuji <em>really </em>doesn’t want to like it this much.</p><p>He isn’t supposed to be the one on Akechi’s mind like this.</p><p>It doesn’t feel like losing or winning.</p><p>It doesn’t feel like a game.</p><p>(Knowing Goro Akechi, though, it almost certainly still <em>is</em>, and that isn’t supposed to hurt Ryuji like this.)</p><p>(It isn’t supposed to <em>excite</em> him.)</p><p>“Fuck, <em>no</em>, I’m gonna come,” he gasps, “Akechi, don’t…”</p><p>“Don’t…?”</p><p>Ryuji makes a sound like he’s crying. He probably is; he’s past being able to tell. “Don’t <em>stop</em>, don’t fucking <em>stop</em>…!”</p><p>Akechi doesn’t stop.</p><p>“Come on, Ryuji,” he goads. “Come for me.”</p><p>Ryuji writhes, clenches his eyes shut, and comes with a choked, “I fucking <em>hate</em> y–<em>hah ah!</em>”</p><p>It’s slow, at first: a dry twitch and the tiniest ease in the pressure, so small it’s frustrating. And then it’s not slow at all. Then his orgasm is <em>tearing </em>through him. The pressure bursts and inside it is a thousand little bits of sensation and they all come crawling out every pore in his body at once, piling up on each other and tumbling down over his skin like so many grains of insignificant pepper. He reaches instinctively for his cock (spilling heavily, now, leaving an obscene mess over that stupid uppity button-up) but Akechi catches his hand and keeps working up into him; fucks him through it so every new pulse comes directly from <em>inside</em>.</p><p>It’s too much. It hurts, aches, <em>burns</em>, but he still can’t help the way he tightens up. His traitorous body clenches around Akechi, <em>greedy</em> for his cock even when it’s torture. Akira usually slows down; likes to grind Ryuji through his orgasm; likes to bottom out and squeeze his fingers tight around Ryuji’s dick and feel every part of him try to writhe itself apart. But Akechi just thrusts up harder into Ryuji’s new resistance; pulls back farther; grits his teeth like it’s too much for him, too.</p><p>“Fuck, <em>fuck</em>, it’s too—I need you to c–” Ryuji stutters. He’s curled over Akechi, now, just barely holding himself up with his hands on the floor, digging his fingers into the cheap carpet as Akechi <em>batters</em> him (makes him clench up even tighter; makes him wonder how much of a degenerate it makes him, the fact that he still fucking <em>loves it</em> so much).</p><p>“Say it, Sakamoto,” Akechi grits. “Say you want it.”</p><p>Ryuji makes some kind of noise, but he’s not sure what kind. He feels it more than hears it. He’s so far into oversensitivity he can’t quite keep up with everything his body is trying to tell him. The world presents itself to him in a series of flickering sensations: something wet sliding over his jaw and neck (tears? spit?); Akechi’s brown hair splayed over tall grey carpet pile; a kind of near-nausea in his throat that spikes every time Akechi thrusts.</p><p>“<em>Admit it</em>,” Akechi growls.</p><p>Ryuji outright whimpers. “I want you to <em>come</em>, I need you to come so bad, come on, Akechi, come on come on come on…”</p><p>Akechi fucks in once more—<em>twice</em>—shit, Ryuji <em>can’t take it</em> (except he <em>can</em> and he <em>will</em> and it’s repugnant and wonderful in equal measure)—and then he reaches up and grips Ryuji by the shoulders and hauls him down onto his cock and hisses, “<em>Yes</em>...”</p><p>He sounds more victorious than anything. His panting breaths sound like laughter. His fingertips dig in around Ryuji’s shoulder caps, like he’s trying to gouge his win into the joint.</p><p>Ryuji can’t feel him swell with his orgasm, but Akechi’s hips twitch in a telltale rhythm, and even through his shirt it’s obvious the way his muscles jump in a vacillating, jerky roll between chest and pubic bone.</p><p>Even without the physical throb, though, Ryuji can feel Akechi’s come. It’s a subtle thing—no odd rush deep inside, the way it sometimes feels when Akira fucks him slowslow<em>slow</em> and finishes with just this side of enough lube, so Ryuji ends up drowning in delicious hypersensitivity. This time it’s just a <em>pressure</em>; it’s his exhausted inner muscles vaguely understanding that there’s <em>more</em> there—that he’s <em>full</em> in every way—and spasming weakly against the increased volume.</p><p>Akechi’s hands are still firm on Ryuji’s shoulders, but it doesn’t feel like he’s trying to pop them out of their sockets anymore. He trails them down over the curve of Ryuji’s back, fingers dragging over the topography of his shoulder blades, spine, ribs, drifting under the stupid fabric of his dangling shirt. He’s not particularly nice about it, but he’s not mean, either; just solid. Unyielding, like anything softer will render his triumph null and void; like even <em>this</em> is some kind of contest that Ryuji doesn’t—<em>can’t</em>—understand.</p><p>“Enjoy yourself, did you, Saka–?”</p><p>Ryuji kisses him mostly to shut him up; somewhat to make a point: Akechi’s not the only one who can play dirty.</p><p>Ryuji’s still shaking, and he’s sure Akechi can feel it, but for once he doesn’t use it as leverage. He makes an intrigued little noise—a sort of hum against the misaligned seam of Ryuji’s mouth—and keeps still for just long enough to make Ryuji feel foolish.</p><p>But then he runs his palms over Ryuji’s thighs and rests them down near his knees, the right one hovering just above his scar, and kisses back.</p><p>Usually their kisses aren’t really kisses at all. They’re silent arguments on good days, all-out brawls on bad ones; savage, malicious things meant to act as a gateway between the fighting and the fucking. But every once in a while they end up like this: a strangely in-sync give-and-take, neither loving nor hateful, striking an intrinsic balance that seems like it shouldn’t make sense (and the fact that it <em>does</em> is part comfort and part catastrophe).</p><p>It makes Ryuji tingle in a way he can’t quite put his finger on whenever their kisses go reflective like this. His fingertips itch, under the nails and right down to the cuticles, and the gaps between all his organs shudder and shrink, and there might be guilt in it—or maybe some brand of shame—but mostly it’s just ignorance.</p><p>It’s all the things he doesn’t know about Akechi.</p><p>It’s all the things Akechi doesn’t know about him.</p><p>(And maybe, in the cracks, it’s a little Akira, too, and all the things he knows about them both.)</p><p>Ryuji shifts up and forward as he pulls away; slips off Akechi’s cock as he slips off his lips, and it makes a mirrored, lewd sound that Ryuji resolutely doesn’t allow himself to be embarrassed by.</p><p>Akechi makes a lewd sound, too, as his dick (still kind of hard, Jesus Christ) flops wetly against his belly.</p><p>Ryuji doesn’t let himself be embarrassed by those, either (though it’s a close, <em>close</em> thing).</p><p>He <em>is</em> embarrassed by what follows, though.</p><p>He can’t help it.</p><p>It’s humiliating, the way he stares at Akechi; stares at his stupid, beautiful hair spread out over Ryuji’s stupid, ugly rug; stares at all the muscles in his face that only ever relax like that when he’s <em>just </em>gotten off; stares at the way, even at rest, he manages to look a little haughty and a little sad (and somehow, on him, it looks so fucking <em>pretty</em>).</p><p>(It’s pretty on Akira, too; not quite so dark, but somehow more mysterious.)</p><p>It’s humiliating the way he feels Akechi’s mess—come and lube and maybe a little spit from earlier—start to run out of him and down the backs of his thighs. It soaks warm and sticky into Akechi’s shirt fabric where it meets Ryuji’s skin (not that it matters—the thing is <em>destroyed</em>, anyway; <em>obscene</em> with thick, white streaks).</p><p>It’s humiliating the way Ryuji can’t tell exactly what it is in Akechi’s voice when he murmurs, “You’re a <em>fool</em>, Ryuji Sakamoto.”</p><p>It’s humiliating how badly he wants it to be something like fondness.</p><p>“Yeah,” Ryuji agrees.</p><p>Akechi’s hands linger on Ryuji’s thighs. His head tilts to one side, and for a second Ryuji thinks he’s going to lean up for another kiss, but then something tightens around his eyes and he squeezes once, hard, before he takes his hands back and pushes up into Ryuji’s space and orders quietly into his ear, “Get off me.”</p><p>Ryuji sighs.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah…”</p><p>His bad leg aches as he heaves himself up and tugs what’s left of his clothes off properly. That sick come-lube mess starts rolling down into the ditch of Ryuji’s knees and sluggishly over his twitching calves. It’s cold, now; <em>gross</em>. He wants to sit down, but hell if he’s going to smear <em>that </em>on his mother’s couch, so he staggers over to the wall to lean heavily against it with an uncultured <em>oof</em>.</p><p>The drywall is cold. His shoulder barely misses clipping the edge of a wicked-sharp looking picture frame (his own younger, dark-haired self stares out at him, and Ryuji shrinks under his hopeful gaze).</p><p>Akechi looks supremely out of place in Ryuji’s apartment. He cleans himself up with snobbish diligence, wiping himself clean as best he can with a handkerchief from his pocket, zipping up and fixing his hair and tutting disapprovingly at his ruined shirt (even as he tucks it in and smooths it out, anyway). He looks <em>weird</em> in Ryuji’s cheap, homey living room; too upscale against the Sakamoto backdrop (a secondhand couch, an old tube TV, a rug that’s still stained in the corner from when Ryuji spilled his juice as a toddler).</p><p>It’s an oddly hot day for October, but Akechi tugs his coat on, anyway, and buttons it up to his neck, and just like that, the orgasm splattered all over his shirt is out of sight and out of mind.</p><p>Ryuji’s not sure why that makes him bristle the way it does.</p><p>Once he’s fully dressed, Akechi looks over. He appraises Ryuji lazily, dragging his eyes head to toe, a little tic going off at the left side of his nose like he’s trying hard not to sneer. “Reprobate,” he scoffs.</p><p>Ryuji rolls his eyes as best he can, but he fears it comes off as more an attempt to avoid Akechi’s scrutiny. “I’ll shower when you’re gone.”</p><p>It’s not a lie, exactly.</p><p>He will.</p><p>Eventually.</p><p>Akechi doesn’t say anything else. He slips his shoes on, and glances over one last time, and <em>smirks</em> (Ryuji’s eye roll comes out stronger this time, thank god), and closes the door with a polite <em>click</em> when he leaves.</p><p>Ryuji makes for the fridge as soon as the door is shut; guzzles an entire bottle of water, heedless of the brain freeze it gives him, before he tracks down his phone and texts Akira.</p><p>🏃🏃🏃 <strong>Ryuji</strong></p><p><strong>Akira</strong> Be there in 5</p><p>God, Ryuji <em>really</em> wants to sit down. He considers laying out a towel so he can rest his legs, but it would just soak up what’s left of Akechi’s mess, and that would defeat the purpose of Akira waiting so patiently in the pathetic little park behind the apartment complex.</p><p>Akira comes in the way Akechi had left: a polite <em>click</em> as he closes the door behind him, a glance at Ryuji’s nude, sloppy body, the removal of his shoes with a casual ease the situation <em>does not</em> call for. “Hey,” he says.</p><p><em>Hey</em>.</p><p>Sometimes Ryuji wonders if it should upset him, just how laidback Akira is about this whole thing.</p><p>It doesn’t, though.</p><p>Like all things <em>Akira</em>, Ryuji shrugs and runs with it; figures it’s all okay as long as Akira’s okay with it.</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>Akira’s hands are about the same size as Akechi’s, but he’s more gentle with them. He steps into Ryuji’s space and cups his jaw and kisses him sweet and <em>god</em>, it’s <em>so much</em> when Ryuji’s only minutes on the other side of its almost-opposite. “How are you doing?” Akira asks against his lips, thumbs toying with the sensitive, bitten skin around Ryuji’s jaw and earlobes.</p><p>It feels nice. Ryuji leans into it indulgently. “’m okay,” he mumbles. “Tired…”</p><p>Akira hums. His right hand skates down over Ryuji’s neck, chest, stomach; curves around his hip and over his ass so he can nudge his middle fingertip against Ryuji’s loose hole.</p><p>The moan in Ryuji’s chest peters out into a whine by the time it reaches his mouth. “<em>Sensitive</em>,” he complains (doesn’t complain at all; bears down against the pressure).</p><p>“He really did a number on you today,” Akira says. He slips in to the second joint; pulls out; slips back in with his pointer and middle finger both, right down to the knuckle. “You’re so open…”</p><p>Ryuji’s hips flinch away from the intrusion, but he doesn’t safe word out. “It was good,” Ryuji grits. “It was...ah<em>, fuck</em>, that’s…”</p><p>Akira’s other hand travels down his own body; works his pants open one-handed. He’s already hard when he pulls himself out. He usually is. He’s usually, by his own account, hard by the time he reaches the park; has to tuck his dick up into his waistband so he doesn’t offend any passersby. “Yeah?” he mutters. “How good was it? How hard did he make you come?”</p><p>Ryuji spasms around Akira’s fingers as he forces in a third. “Came so hard,” Ryuji moans. “<em>So</em> hard. It was...he didn’t...<em>hah</em>, shit, n-no hands this time.”</p><p>Akira’s fingers <em>ram</em> inside. It pulls a cracked groan out from somewhere around Ryuji’s sternum. “He made you come without touching you?”</p><p>Ryuji sags against Akira with a pathetic noise.</p><p>Akira pays the extra weight no mind; lets go of his own dick to wrap his arm around Ryuji’s waist and keeps fingering him with focused intent. “Answer me, Ryuji,” he says. “Did he get you off with just his cock?”</p><p>Akira’s voice is always low, but now there’s gravel in it. It’s harsh in a way he usually holds back. Ryuji doesn’t understand what it means.</p><p>It scares him.</p><p>It makes him want to bend over.</p><p>“Yes,” Ryuji chokes. “Yes, I came on just his co—<em>huhgh</em>.” Akira spins him on the last syllable; doesn’t even pull his fingers out first, just whirls him around deftly and slams him up against the wall and keeps grinding into him without remorse. Ryuji’s not hard—he <em>can’t</em> get hard, not this close to what Akechi’d put him through—but he’s <em>turned on</em>; aroused right from the core, some place deep in his gut.</p><p>“How did he do it?”</p><p>Ryuji can’t answer, at first; can’t even understand the question. Fuck, it hurts, it <em>hurts</em>, in every single way it had and hadn’t with Akechi. “H-Huh?”</p><p>“<em>How</em>,” Akira demands, “did he fuck you?” He sounds so jealous he could spit; so excited he could shoot on the spot.</p><p>Ryuji grunts and works his hips uselessly. He’s not sure whether he’s trying to move toward or away from the onslaught of Akira’s fingers, but it doesn’t matter—Akira’s other hand holds him firm at the nape of his neck. His cheek is mashed against the wall and he can barely feel his legs and he <em>can’t fucking move</em> except to arch his back and <em>take it</em>.</p><p>(<em>No one can fucking take it like him</em>, after all, and <em>fuck</em> Akechi for making that shit so goddamned insidious it’s already clinging to the inside of his skull like this.)</p><p>“Made me ride him,” Ryuji chokes, just barely. “<em>Made me</em>...said I was…”</p><p>From the angle Ryuji’s face is pressed he can’t make out Akira’s expression. It’s blurry; distorted. And when he steps in even closer—<em>twists</em> his fingers as his arm shifts out of the way so he can drape himself along the length of Ryuji’s back—Ryuji can’t see it at all, and it’s more disconcerting than he’d have anticipated.</p><p>Something is happening here that hasn’t happened before. Not like <em>this</em>, anyway, and Ryuji likes it, but he’s not sure if that’s a good thing.</p><p>(He’s not sure if <em>any of this</em> is a good thing, though, so he supposes it’s appropriate.)</p><p>“What did he say?”</p><p>Ryuji’s breath is condensing along the dull beige paint. It makes his lips slip oddly against the wall when he tries to speak. “That I...that <em>you</em>...fuck, Akira, <em>please</em>, just <em>fuck me</em> if you’re going to, I <em>can’t</em>…”</p><p>“What did he <em>say</em> while he fucked the come out of you?”</p><p>For the second time in as many hours, Ryuji outright whimpers.</p><p>“That you’d fuck him better…” (Akira’s pace loses cadence.) “...but you couldn’t take it like me.”</p><p>Akira’s forehead drops onto the topmost knob of Ryuji’s spine. “<em>Jesus</em>, Goro…” he mumbles, quiet enough that Ryuji’s pretty proud of the way he’s able to make it out mostly from the shape of Akira’s lips on his skin.</p><p>And then all that pride leaches away, because Akira <em>gets it</em>, just from that little tidbit. <em>Of course </em>he gets it. He gets everything about the way Akechi fucks Ryuji, even the parts <em>Akechi </em>doesn’t get (and <em>especially </em>the parts Ryuji doesn’t). There are so many <em>why</em>s involved in every corner of whatever this is, and Ryuji can’t tell if Akira has answers for all of them or just the ones obvious enough for Ryuji to catch in the first place.</p><p>He can’t tell which answers turn Akira on and which ones makes him envious (or maybe all of them do both in some way—maybe that’s the point?).</p><p>He can’t tell <em>who</em> Akira is envious <em>of</em>.</p><p>He can’t tell why <em>he</em> isn’t envious of either of them—he should be, shouldn’t he?</p><p>(Then again, Ryuji’s arguably got the least raw end of this deal. Akira fucks him <em>and </em>Akechi fucks him. Sure, the trade-off is that it’s all part of some grand game-thing between the two of them, but what does it matter if Ryuji’s too dense to understand that bit, anyway? Akira’s the one who doesn’t get to fuck Akechi. Akechi’s the one who doesn’t get to fuck Akira—doesn’t even get to know that <em>Ryuji</em> fucks Akira. Sounds like a pretty shitty arrangement, Ryuji thinks. They can keep their outrageous cunning and smarts if it means they can’t even <em>fuck</em> properly.)</p><p>(But then…)</p><p>(What the hell does Ryuji know, anyway?)</p><p>Akira pulls his fingers out, and in the next moment his cock is swiping haphazardly up the back of Ryuji’s left thigh, right through the cold, tacky come-lube-spit mixture there. “He’s right, you know,” he says, tugging one of Ryuji’s cheeks aside, no doubt so he can watch himself start to press ever more insistently against that slack, puffy hole. “<em>No one</em> can take it like you.”</p><p>He thrusts in all at once, and Ryuji’s at a loss: is it Akira’s cock that makes him shout and drool against the wall, or is it what he said?</p><p>Why doesn’t Ryuji <em>care</em>?</p><p>All at once, the hairline cracks that make up all the differences between Akira and Akechi become obvious.</p><p>Akechi wouldn’t pause if he were here; would probably fist a hand in Ryuji’s hair to grind his cheekbone harder against the drywall and find some awful, flawless way to goad him (“<em>Is it worse that you wanted this, Sakamoto, or that you like it even more than you thought you would?</em>”).</p><p>Akira, though, pulls Ryuji back by the hips, like he can somehow get deeper inside, and whispers, “Too much?” and waits the scant seconds it takes Ryuji to shudder (and shudder <em>again</em>, inside and out, <em>fuck</em>) and beg, “Not too much, go, go, please <em>go</em>,” before he starts up a moderate, merciless rhythm.</p><p>Ryuji’s cock is barely firm, swinging almost laughably between his legs, but Akira grabs it around the base, anyway—like it fucking <em>belongs</em> to him, even when it’s limp and tapped (even when it’s hard and straining against someone else’s hand). It’s <em>so much</em>—more, even, than Akechi’s determined, hands-free thrusting had been. It’s slower, more meticulous, less callous; but it’s decisive and dogged and resolute, and <em>fuck</em>, Akira is so much <em>prettier</em> about being those things than Akechi is. He goes about the business of wrecking Ryuji in ways he’s sure Akechi can’t, and he’s so careful about it that it somehow comes off nearly <em>delicate</em>.</p><p>He drapes himself over Ryuji’s back and holds his mostly soft cock hostage and grinds heavily into his oversensitive hole, and Ryuji doesn’t understand how it’s possible to be so <em>stupidly aroused</em> when he’s already come so <em>stupidly hard</em>.</p><p>What builds this time isn’t an orgasm—not <em>exactly</em>. Ryuji doesn’t know what it is, just knows that it starts somewhere deep inside and works its way along all sorts of nerves he hadn’t ever dreamed would fire on account of his getting fucked: along the back of his skull, in the ditches of his knees and elbows, ping-ponging between the bones in his forearms and his calves. It’s a pressure that forces itself inward and outward at the same time; inflates him and deflates him until he can’t tell if he’s going to burst or implode.</p><p>Akira pants behind him. He’s quieter than Akechi; more graceful in victory. When he chooses to speak, his words hit like hail. They get all caught up in Ryuji’s hair and melt down over his face and the back of his neck, cold and exhilarating. They drip over the places Akechi’s words had hit, and <em>shit</em>, the cold on the ache on the <em>cold</em> on the <em>ache</em>...“You feel so good...you’re doing so well...can you take a little more for me?”</p><p>There <em>is</em> no more than this. Ryuji’s not sure if he says so or not, but whatever comes out his mouth has Akira mumbling, “I know, <em>I know</em>,” against the side of his neck, and that pressure is building and <em>building</em> and it’s almost frustrating because Ryuji doesn’t even know what it’s building <em>towards</em>, if it’ll be worth it or not, if it’ll <em>hurt</em>, but he <em>wants it</em>, wants it to <em>overwhelm</em> him, whatever it is, until it’s everywhereeverything<em>allallall</em>–</p><p>Ryuji seizes; nearly fucking <em>drops</em>. Akira catches him around the waist and has to nearly sandwich him against the wall to keep him upright, and it’s a harsh, frigid shock along the whole front of him, but Ryuji doesn’t care, doesn’t <em>notice</em>, he’s somewhere in the orbit of fucking <em>Saturn</em>, he’s–</p><p>He can’t see, can’t hear, can’t feel, move, breathe.</p><p>He’s somewhere between stiff and shaking apart.</p><p>He’s not coming—not physically—not in any way he ever has—but he <em>is</em>.</p><p>Fuck, <em>he’s coming</em>, he’s–</p><p>Akira groans his name; leaves bruises between his ribs; comes violently inside.</p><p>Ryuji whites the fuck out.</p><p>For a while, he floats through thick, viscous light. It seems like it should be warm, but it isn’t. It’s not a temperature at all; not a <em>feeling</em> outside an odd sense of resistance every time he tries to move.</p><p>He drifts and drifts and drifts and finally comes back to himself by inches, like this:</p><p>There’s something soft beneath him that sticks to his skin when he tries to move.</p><p>His mouth is horrendously dry.</p><p>It’s the couch that’s sticking to him—it stings in parts, where the leather has cracked and split over the years.</p><p>Akira’s somewhere nearby. Ryuji can feel the winding path his hands take as they trek up his chest and down over his stomach; down his legs and back up to his hips.</p><p>He murmurs a deep, soothing something. Ryuji doesn’t know what, but that must be alright, because those hands don’t stop.</p><p>His right foot is threatening to cramp up on him.</p><p>His skin feels two sizes too big.</p><p>His eyelids don’t budge the first time he tries to pry them open.</p><p>The second time he gets a flutter out of them.</p><p>He rests, then; rests; falls asleep for a microsecond, maybe?</p><p>He tries a third time; blinks hard against the light, but keeps his eyes open.</p><p>Akira, it turns out, is kneeling on the floor beside the couch, running his hands over Ryuji’s body in that gentle ebb and flow. “Hey,” he says.</p><p><em>Hey</em>.</p><p>Still so casual, like he hasn’t just drowned Ryuji in pleasure-pain and then forced it all out again with brisk, rib-cracking CPR. As usual, his nonchalance is an offbeat kind of comfort. It rounds out all the sharp <em>what-the-hell</em> edges; leaves them in oblong <em>no-big-deal</em> curves.</p><p>“Hey,” Ryuji rasps.</p><p>Akira smiles, and there’s something wicked in it, as always (because there’s something wicked in <em>him</em>), but mostly it’s just soft and warm and generous. And it’s so embarrassing when this happens with Akechi, but with Akira it’s practically expected: Ryuji <em>stares</em> at him; at the lazy curl of his hair and the deceptive strength of his arms and the expression on his face that manages to land between adoration and pity.</p><p>It makes Ryuji want to kiss him.</p><p>So he does, the exact way he can’t with Akechi.</p><p>He reaches one trembling arm up and hooks it around Akira’s neck and pulls him down—not that he has to pull, really. Akira sinks against his lips like he’s been waiting for permission; not like Akechi, <em>nothing</em> like Akechi…</p><p>And then <em>exactly</em> like Akechi.</p><p>Just like before, the kiss is balanced in a way Ryuji only kind of grasps; full up with a myriad of differences and similarities too minute for him to catch. (Too minute for Akechi to catch, too, maybe. But then, what could Ryuji <em>ever </em>know about the way Akira and Akechi might come together?)</p><p>(...)</p><p>(Ryuji tries not to think too hard about the very distinct possibility that <em>he’s</em> the one out of the loop here.)</p><p>(He tries not to think about the possibility that Akira and Akechi already <em>have </em>come together.)</p><p>(When he thinks about that, it makes him want things he doesn’t fully understand.)</p><p>(It makes him want things that scare him.)</p><p>(It makes him want them both in ways he’s pretty sure are impossible at best and twisted at worst.)</p><p>(...<em>pretty</em> sure.)</p><p>(...)</p><p>And then Akira is pulling back, and a hundred differences come pouring in from the sides again. His lips don’t pull back into a sneer. He stays close, breathing against Ryuji’s cheek, and instead of <em>reprobate</em>, he drawls, “God, Ryuji, we don’t deserve you…”</p><p>Ryuji quivers weakly. Akira notices; presses a kiss to his forehead; keeps running his hands up and down and up and down as he murmurs mindless praise into Ryuji’s hair, “It’s true, you’re so <em>good</em> for us, for <em>me</em>, I can’t believe the things you take to make him feel good, so much to make <em>me </em>feel good, you’re <em>amazing</em>...”</p><p>Ryuji wants to correct him—he’s not that selfless, as much as he wishes he was; it’s not like he does this just for <em>them</em>—but his mouth is still dry, and the appreciation against his scalp is making him all tingly and limp, and he finds he can’t do anything but sink into the creaky, cracked leather of the sofa and let Akira do and say as he pleases.</p><p>Slowly, the praise peters out, and enough feeling comes back to Ryuji’s limbs that he can push himself up onto his elbows, though Akira stops him with a palm to the chest when he tries to sit up properly. He makes a disgruntled noise—there’s only so much time he can spend naked on his mother’s couch before it starts to feel downright debauched—but Akira just holds a glass to his lips and helps him drain half the water from it. “Shower,” he requests afterward. “And food.”</p><p>Akira chuckles. “<em>Bath</em>, and food,” he corrects. “And then massage. I’ve learned a few things from that maid friend of mine.”</p><p>Ryuji feels like he should flush, but his body can’t spare the energy. His cheeks stay cool even as his stomach goes wobbly. Akira’s always sweet like this in the aftermath, but today especially it excites Ryuji in a way he tries to remind himself it doesn’t fully have a right to.</p><p>He wonders if he’d be sweet like this with Akechi in the aftermath, too.</p><p>(He doesn’t wonder—he <em>doesn’t</em>—if he’s <em>already been </em>sweet like this with Akechi in the aftermath.)</p><p>(...)</p><p>“You don’t have to,” Ryuji protests, but it’s hesitant; unsteady.</p><p>“I do,” Akira says. “And even if I didn’t, I want to.”</p><p>Ryuji sighs; relents. That’s fair enough—more than, really. He knows the feeling exactly: having to, and wanting to, and wanting to have to…</p><p>“Okay,” he agrees, and lets Akira pick him up with one arm under his shoulders and the other under his knees even though it makes him feel feeble and silly in a way that burns (makes him feel cherished in a way that burns, too). “I trust you, leader. Whatever you say.”</p><p>Ryuji wraps his arms around Akira’s neck; holds on lax but firm as he can.</p><p>Whatever Akira says.</p><p>That’ll do for now.</p><p>It’ll be whatever Akechi says again later, he knows, and that’ll be fine, too.</p><p>Whatever Akechi says, whatever Akira says…</p><p>It’ll do for now.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Heeeyyyyy so this started out as a ryugoro drabble a few weeks ago and, uh...<i>and I oop–</i>.</p><p><strike>where is the pegoryugoro community pls help me find them i only own twitter and discord halp</strike> update: I have located a ryugoro server my rarepair thirst has been momentarily quenched</p><p> </p><p>  <a href="https://twitter.com/BleedingType">I'm on Twitter, come say hi. (Warning: NSFW account, a bitch is horny on main.)</a></p><p> </p><p>  <strike>i'm also in the pegoryu server but i am literally too scared to post there ever again 😅 dms are always open tho if you want to scream about Joker + his big dumb blonde ray of sunshine i promise i'm really nice</strike></p></blockquote></div></div>
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